


Father

by KarkaHatchlings



Series: Guild Wars 2 Interstitial [2]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure, Conversations, Fluff, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Reminiscing, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14188464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarkaHatchlings/pseuds/KarkaHatchlings
Summary: A sylvari and a charr discuss families, particularly father figures.





	Father

The hound's ears flicked against Biwt’s leg and he shook his leafy scruff before settling his head back down on her bare foot. He’d been responding to the circling gulls’ raucous cries as the noise intruded on the map room when the door opened. Always part of the ambient of Fort Marriner, the clamoring birds were in a near-cacophonic frenzy with the arrival of the airship. Much like, Biwt reflected, her cheek resting against the glossy leaf covering her forearm on the edge of the table, the people below them.

The thought was unworthy of her, and she instantly regretted it. It was Wintersday, after all. She should be out there with them, seeing it for the very first time, but other than the shadow the Infinirarium cast over the stained-glass skylights here, nothing had been different for her. In the back of her mind, she could faintly hear half-remembered holiday songs learned by elder brothers and sisters in yesteryears, but they were easy to ignore. Those memories weren't really hers.

“There you are,” rumbled a gruff voice, the slop in pronunciation edging around the words identifying the speaker as a charr. Of course: the door had opened. Biwt closed her eyes in silent self-recrimination at her carelessness, then peered up at her visitor without raising her head. He planted himself heavily in the next chair, brushing his robes and tail aside to sit.

“The others are at the Lion’s Shadow, Balrit,” offered the sylvari in a low voice, almost mumbling. Looking down pensively again, she could see her soft autumnal glow briefly banish the shadow under her hand where it rested on the table, then fade.

“But they’re not,” he snorted bluntly, glancing around, “otherwise I’d be, too. I don’t feel welcome here.” The chamber’s few other inhabitants, conversing softly in pairs before charts on the wall, ignored him politely.

Biwt’s large, lambent eyes narrowed in annoyance. “The Orders are working together now.”

Making skeptical grunt to comment on that, the charr returned to his original line of thought. “Charter and Pleek sneaked off to Southsun again,” an amused shake of his striped, shaggy head, “together, and the others are in the city to see the Toymaker. Why are you closeted here?” Typical of his kind, cutting straight to the point.

When Biwt didn’t answer, he rasped a deep chuckle, picking up the bow, her bow, laid on the table atop its quiver. Cruelly long talons hooked, testing its draw. “You’ve been in a state since the Pact got moving. Moping around, glaring at maps of far-off places. You," he released the string with a snap and let the claw point at her now, "have either found a man, or lost one."

That was enough to get her to pick her head up. "No," the sylvari protested angrily, her hound punctuating the denial with a sharp, creaking bark.

"Hush, Socair," she reached down and stilled her pet, threading wine-dark fingers through his verdant coat. Eyeing the charr as he replaced the bow carefully, she relented, a moue of apology fluttering across cleft lips. "No. It's not like that. Not the way you mean."

"I'm all ears," the charr offered sardonically, gesturing to one side of his head, "tell me about him."

Biwt frowned at the joke, but said nothing. For all his directness, humor was the enormous spellcaster's way. "I met him when I joined the Vigil. A soldier: strong, capable, fierce..."

The charr's smile was a grotesque jumble of long, yellowing fangs.

"You," she glared again, and Balrit composed his face with the ease of a practiced actor. "...Fierce, brave, everything a warrior and a man should be."

Idly, she drew an arrow from the quiver, balancing it between her fingers. The smooth wood of the shaft was the nut-brown of her arms above where the deep rose stain crept in at her wrists, and just as flexible and limber. Of course it was, she'd carved and fletched it. She'd been born knowing how to do that. "But sad. He was sad. And he brought it to fights, an angry melancholy over what he'd lost over the years."

"Hm, so you like older men," interrupted the charr’s brazen growl.

"For the last time, it's not like that," Biwt retorted, but just as quickly let her anger subside, seeing Balrit's toothy grin at having baited her, "they're all older than me, you ninny, what am I supposed to like?"

"No family," continued the sylvari, waving the arrow to warn of dire consequences for another interruption, "other than the Vigil. I think he resented me a little. At first. A sapling put in his care, another thing to have a life of battles take away from him. And I, I wasn't sure about him either. I hadn't learned all the remarkable things about him yet, listened to what he could teach."

"But I tried," she said, plaintive, arrow-tip wavering and dropping to the table with a click, "I tried to be a better fighter, to do the right thing to protect others. I wanted his approval." It was true, she realized, as if having said it brought out the real meaning of that desire. The Mother Tree had always loved her, been proud, believed in her. This was the first time Biwt had to earn that from someone, and it had been an ache deep inside.

"I wanted him to be proud of me," she dug a gnarled knuckle into the corner of her eye, pushing aside a thick, slow drop of nectar that had sprung up there, "at the end, I think he was." Beneath the table, Socair whined softly, bumping his muzzle against her shin.

Balrit cleared his throat, one heavy brow raised over a glittering yellow eye in question. The sylvari’s nod showed he was welcome to speak. "Well," he growled, warming up, "I might just be a fahrar cub and not know much on the subject either, but at least I actually had one to start with, and I say you're pining for your sire."

"Didn't meet mine until late," his voice rolled sonorously out of his barrel chest, "but when I did, a lot of things clicked. About who I was, about the legacy I was supposed to carry on or stand against. Doesn't matter if yours wasn't by birth, you found one." The charr stood abruptly, scraping the chair back across the stone floor on purpose, making the other occupants of the room turn and look at him.

"I'll be at the Lion's Shadow, if you feel like having a drink." With a dramatic swirl of robes he turned and lumbered out to the courtyard, leaving the door ajar.

A flutter of wings signaled the messenger bird’s arrival, taking advantage of the open door. Caught by a Vigil attendant, it surrendered the scrap of paper in its claws and was released. "Jofast's Camp," announced the reader grimly, looking over at the map table, "Crusader Biwt, could you...?"

A sharp dip of her chin indicated her understanding and she rose, walking silently to the map table. Just as quiet, the fern hound padded after, petal-like tongue lolling out. 

The painted pewter figure representing the Pact forces at the camp on the Cursed Shore still stood tall, unaware the soldiers it represented had all fallen, overrun. She considered for a moment; it wasn't a facsimile. He'd been bigger in life, to be certain, a tower of a man, casting a long shadow over her. Perhaps this distant, lost fight had looked the same as his last. Risen loping in from all sides, empty, sagging faces glaring in blind hatred as they came. He'd looked across the battlefield when they'd been separated, his sad, angry eyes searching. When he finally found her, he gave a simple nod, seeming to say, "you'll do fine." It was all he'd had time for, it had to be enough.

Lips moving in silence, she tested the unfamiliar word, comparing its shape to a hole and finding a match. With the tip of the arrow, Biwt knocked over the figure, showing the camp was lost. "Goodbye, father," she whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in /gw2g/.
> 
> Events referenced here correspond to in-game events: the original celebration of Wintersday in pre-Scarlet's War Lion's Arch.


End file.
